


Red

by Viscariafields



Series: Leandra Hawke [30]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Amputation, Angst, F/M, Near Death Experiences, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Red Lyrium, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28081878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/pseuds/Viscariafields
Summary: It started with an itch. A slight irritation of the skin on his arm. Fenris rubbed, then scratched. “It’s nothing,” he said, when his fussing drew Hawke’s gaze.It wasn’t nothing.The itch became a slow burn, irritating, and impervious to their health poultices, but ultimately minor enough to ignore. He wrapped the area to protect it from further irritants while they traveled across the vast Orlesian nothing and fought the few scavengers that tried to make a home here. For a few days, it was just one more thing. Like the blisters on his feet from his new boots, or the aching muscles that never learned to ride a horse. Travel was always uncomfortable, and now he could add a mysterious rash to his list of complaints.But when he unwrapped the bandage at night, a small section of the markings on his forearm glowed red.It burned.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Series: Leandra Hawke [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1462840
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the tags. This fic is a bit more gruesome than some others I've written.

It started with an itch. A slight irritation of the skin on his arm. Fenris rubbed, then scratched. “It’s nothing,” he said, when his fussing drew Hawke’s gaze.

It wasn’t nothing.

The itch became a slow burn, irritating, and impervious to their health poultices, but ultimately minor enough to ignore. He wrapped the area to protect it from further irritants while they traveled across the vast Orlesian nothing and fought the few scavengers that tried to make a home here. For a few days, it was just one more thing. Like the blisters on his feet from his new boots, or the aching muscles that never learned to ride a horse. Travel was always uncomfortable, and now he could add a mysterious rash to his list of complaints.

But when he unwrapped the bandage at night, a small section of the markings on his forearm glowed red.

It burned.

Fenris knew what it meant. He’d been there when Meredith died. He’d received Varric’s frantic letters over the past years. For all of three seconds, he entertained the idea that it wouldn’t spread. But that was the one thing they truly understood about red lyrium. It spread. Quickly.

Each night he marked its progress, a slow climb through his markings, and each day he wrapped more of his arm. The least he could do was not let it spread it from one arm to another, or a leg or—or poison Hawke with it.

He had to tell her. She had to leave him behind. He would not have her suffer the same fate.

One more night. Every morning he told himself just one more night with her. And then she would leave him for the last time.

“Your arm?” she asked him at least once a day.

“It is fine,” he lied. He lied every day until one morning he could no longer make a fist with his fingers. They burned, yes, but they were stiff and cracking and when he rubbed at them, he swore small pieces of crystal scratched off of the brands, like grains of polluted sand.

“ _Fenris._ ”

Almost his entire hand was glowing red. No use hiding it now. He unwrapped his arm, the corruption winding its way up toward the shoulder. He wondered if it would stop when it reached his heart and kill him then, or if it would be slow, weaving around him in bright coils until all he knew was its dark heat.

He didn’t yet hear the whispers.

Hawke hadn’t moved, her body gone slack as she stared at his burning skin.

“You know what must be done,” he said.

“ _No._ ”

“You must leave me behind before I poison you and lose my mind to it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“There is no other option.”

He wouldn’t ask her to kill him. He could find other means if necessary, but she would not live with his blood on her hands. In her last memories of him, he would have all of his faculties, standing here, back straight, unafraid. She would leave him a free man.

“I won’t leave you.”

He was surprised to realize she was weeping, so quiet were her tears. He couldn’t hold her this time. He couldn’t risk it with his arm exposed. He would not corrupt her as he had been corrupted. The best he could do was leave if she would not. He turned his back on her.

“I love you,” he said, “More than my own life. And I will not let this consume us both.” 

Fenris began shifting things from his pack to hers. She wouldn’t need the extra bed roll, but he might as well give her the rations. His coin purse. Cooking supplies. Odds and ends a dead man did not need. His fingers lingered on the ribbon tied to his wrist. No keepsakes necessary for him anymore, but she might want it to remember him by, as he once used it to remember her.

Her hand on his wrist stopped him from untying it. “If you are to become a statue, let us become statues together,” she said, pressing her forehead to his, “A monument to reckless, unfettered love. I’m not leaving you behind. I never will.”

It was with great effort he pulled away. One last kiss. One more touch. Desires that would only lead to just one more. He would always want another after. Then another, and another. “Last” was a terrible concept that stirred a bitter rage in his heart, a desire to pummel the ground and demand, “More!” like a child as if the Maker would heed him. It was easier to leave knowing the last was already behind him. That that part of his life ended before he knew it. That he had experienced the time he had with Hawke had been a miracle in itself, and he would not ruin her with his greed. He secured his lightened pack to his horse.

There were no words to warrant an adequate goodbye, to sum up years of life shared. The longer he waited, the more cunning Hawke would get in convincing him to stay. It was better to make the break quickly and cleanly.

“Banavis fedari, Hawke. May the ground rise to meet your feet.”

He mounted his horse, but her hand snatched the bridle.

“I’m struck by a similar situation faced recently.” Her words came out in fits and starts. “There was a solution of sorts.” Fenris waited, his eyes trained to the horizon. Certainly no one else had the luck to have their skin corrupted by magisters _twice_. There was no cure. He could urge his horse onward and hope she let go, but Hawke deserved better. He listened. “If your plan is really to die,” she choked out, “Then I think we have nothing to lose.”

“Hawke—”

“We cut it out. The infection. We remove it entirely, and then we get as far from red lyrium as we can. North. It’s better in the North.” Between each word she heaved ragged gasps for air. “But first we cut it out.”

Her knuckles were white around the bridle, and his mare stamped her foot nervously.

“You want to cut off my arm?” he clarified.

“It sounds like you aren’t planning on using it ever again,” she retorted.

That… was true.

“At least it’s your left,” she added.

It was a gruesome proposal. But more gruesome than slowly being driven mad while his body crystalized? Was it truly too high a price to pay for the hope of yet living to old age with the woman he loved?

“You said we were out of options,” she pressed, “It’s an option.”

By her stance, he thought she might actually fight him if he refused. Her logic made sense in a Hawke sort of way. If he was intent on dying either way… removing the arm by force was the kind of thing she would do.

And hadn’t she lost enough people in her life already?

“There’s no time to find a healer,” he said, “I waited too long already.”

She nodded, swallowing. “Right. Then we do this ourselves. Do we have any alcohol left? Because you should probably drink all of it. I’m going to… I’m going get a fire going for the blade.”

She didn’t move until he dismounted his horse, keeping a wary eye on him in case he bolted. Harder for him to run once he had emptied almost an entire flask into his belly. He passed the rest to her while waiting for it to take effect. She needed her hands to stop shaking if she was going to do this. Maker help them both, he was going to let her.

“It’s a good thing you carry so many blades,” he joked as she coaxed the fire hotter. An assortment of them sat at the ready, Hawke dipping each into the flame to prepare, glaring at them as if they had offended her.

“None of them are meant for this,” she muttered, “If only I had an axe.” The two she carried on her back had always reminded him of a butcher’s cleavers, but he didn’t say this now. He did not want to think about being butchered. Instead he reached for her with his good arm, soon to be his _only_ arm, and what a thought that was, and pulled her to sit with him. She pressed a bottle into his hands. “Tell me when you are drunk enough to want to sleep. It’s selfish, but I don’t want you to remember any of this.” 

It was easy to convince himself to keep drinking against the red glow of his fingers. He never thought he could feel a deeper loathing for his own skin, a deeper sense of betrayal or fear or disgust. He’d long come to find a gentle neutrality toward the markings. They made him a weapon, but he was master to himself. They’d sent him on a path, and somewhere along the way he had controlled the destination. And it had been good, so good. To once again lose everything—his past and now his future— to pretty marks etched artistically into his flesh… he could almost hear Danarius laughing.

So he turned his gaze to Hawke. An hour ago he had steeled himself to never see her again. If he’d gotten on his horse faster, urged her into a canter, he would have done it. Left her behind and faced his fate. But she—she always saw a path where he didn’t. She offered him a future, and he wanted it so badly. Lasts be damned, he kissed her. Hard. Red hand on the bottle and white hand in her hair. He should have known that she’d find hope in this, their most hopeless situation yet. She tasted of hope; she exhaled it in every breath. He kissed her like it was the first time and they had all the time in the world to get it right. And then he kissed her again because he could, right now he still could, and right now was everything.

Hawke pulled away first, and he dropped his head against her shoulder.

“Next time we have a problem, we sort it out together,” she said, “I don’t join the Inquisition, and you don’t ride off to die alone when you get a spot of rash.” 

“I promise,” he drawled into her neck.

She gently pushed him back, holding his chin so she could look into his eyes. He blinked slowly at her. Tanned from all their travel, tired, lips chapped, hair windswept--more strands out of her braid than still in it—and her eyes rimmed red from crying, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He had to tell her. He had to tell her how lucky he was to see her one last time.

It came out in a babble, half in Tevene he realized when Hawke raised an eyebrow. 

Fuck, he was drunk.

“Fenris,” she said, pushing the hair from his eyes, “It’s time. Lie down.”

He was only too happy to comply, even knowing what came next, hitting his bedroll with more force than planned. Hawke lined up all of their healing supplies, poultices and potions and linens, to one side of him. Then, biting her lip, she chose a blade and thrust it into the fire once more.

“Hawke if I—”

“Hush now. Amputation in the wilderness by a nonmagical rogue with no surgical experience or tools?” she asked, “What could possibly go wrong?”

“I trust you,” he said.

“You’re very drunk and your judgment is terribly impaired. Now go ahead and bite down on this belt and think about how much I love you.”

He did as she asked, the leather uncomfortable between his teeth. The least of his worries as his eyes fell closed. Hawke was murmuring something, and by the sound of it, it could have been a prayer. _I’ve never heard her pray before_ , was his last thought before his entire world exploded into blinding, searing pain.

He thrashed, but Hawke’s knee was on his chest. Possibly through his chest at one point, as the lyrium flickered and scorched. “Sorry,” she recited over and over, “I’m so sorry.” 

The pain, the _sound_ of it, Fenris couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, he couldn’t think. Everything went red—it _burned and it screamed_ — and then, blessedly, he knew nothing at all as the world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke was not praying. She was chanting "don't throw up" and it was aimed at both her and Fenris.


End file.
